


You Can Have My Everything

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Resist [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Breathplay, Come Marking, Dom/sub, M/M, Marking, Orgasm Denial, Ownership, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Sex, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, Rope Bondage, Sex Toys, Sort of? - Freeform, Stranger Sex, Subspace, Zevran Arainai is a Good Friend, a stranger within the roleplay anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:36:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23580961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: The tags pretty much cover it, tbh, except for one important note: Zevran is a friend, not the third in a triad. He's a fuckbuddy having a good time, and none of them are interested in changing that dynamic.I feel like I'm missing some tags, so proceed with caution, because there might very well be something I didn't think of. Feel free to tell me if I did miss any.
Relationships: Alistair/Male Amell (Dragon Age), Alistair/Zevran Arainai
Series: Resist [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630051
Comments: 26
Kudos: 115





	You Can Have My Everything

**Author's Note:**

> FYI, there are a couple points in this story where Alistair is left alone while tied up. They're brief times (and sometimes he thinks he's alone when he's not), but they happen.
> 
> Also, I have never tied anyone to a bed (or been tied to a bed) without velcro cuffs, which means I'm not real clear on exactly how it would work in this situation, so I just made it work the way I wanted it to work. Roll with it, and don't examine the physics too closely. :D
> 
> ******************************************************
> 
> Title is from "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails:
> 
> You get me closer to God  
> You can have my isolation; you can have the hate that it brings  
> You can have my absence of faith; you can have my everything  
> Help me tear down my reason
> 
> [Random irrelevant side note: I'd been thinking about this story for a couple days, not sure if I wanted to write it, when I heard this song for the first time. It's not often that titles just fall in my lap like that (I actually had trouble picking one from all the options), so I took it as a sign and wrote almost 13k of smut.]

Daylen is fussing.

Not that Alistair would say so out loud, but there really isn't another word for it. He's re-tied the rope twice, and he looks like he's thinking about doing it a third time. The first time was probably necessary, the rope loose enough Alistair could have slipped his wrists free with a little effort; Daylen isn't especially practiced at restraining someone without magic, and it's not like Alistair can help. That the bed lacks posts, headboard, and footboard only complicated things, so it's not a surprise Daylen had to re-tie everything the first time.

The second time, however, was _not_ necessary, and a third time would be...

Well, a third time would be fussing.

"You could just use magic," Alistair says, the way he said tonight before they started, and last night when they were finalizing the details, and last week when they first began to plan.

"No," Daylen says emphatically, the way he said earlier tonight, and last night, and last week.

Alistair smothers a sigh against the mattress. It's easy enough to do when he's tied like this, face-down with his arms and legs spread. The position felt good to start with, and it's not uncomfortable now, but all Daylen's fussing means Alistair's cock has lost interest in the proceedings. He's still half hard, because how can he not be when Daylen has him pinned down, but he's also in imminent danger of becoming bored.

"If you'd be happier with magic," Alistair starts.

"No, I like this," Daylen interrupts. He paces around the bed, or as much of it as he can when it's tucked into a corner, before finally coming to a halt at the foot, right by Alistair's head.

There's no amount of twisting or stretching that will let Alistair see Daylen's face, even though he's tied with his head half off the bed. He can look to his left or to his right, and he can see Daylen's boots in front of him, and that's all. If he really tries, he can get his chin over the end of the mattress and see as high as Daylen's waist, but that's the best he can manage.

Daylen goes down on one knee and wraps his hand around Alistair's forearm, right below his wrist and the rope tied there. "I'm just not very good with rope, and I hate being bad at things."

Now there's something that would be a surprise to exactly no one. The same instinct that kept Alistair from saying the word "fussing" aloud also keeps that thought behind his teeth.

"I didn't think I'd like the rope at all," Daylen admits. "I mean, I didn't think I'd dislike it, either, but..." His other hand strokes the back of Alistair's neck, teasing the short hair at the base of his skull. "I like it a lot. You look pretty all tied up for me, just waiting to be fucked."

Alistair can feel the blush warming his cheeks, and he's glad Daylen can't see it. Even after months of Daylen saying things to him that are far more obscene, Alistair still blushes most times, and he hates it. He wants to use those words as easily as Daylen does, to ask for things without stammering, without relying on Daylen to fill in the gaps, often by way of a few yes-or-no questions. When he tried to ask for this, for what they're about to do, he stumbled so much he honestly doesn't know how Daylen was able to figure it out. There had been a lot of hand waving on Alistair's part.

"So pretty," Daylen murmurs, and Alistair's face burns hotter.

Even on a good day, when he can use the right words, he still blushes when Daylen says things like _that_. He feels like he should argue, or at least treat the words as a joke. He doesn't want to, but he feels like he should. No one calls him pretty, or good, or perfect, and certainly not the way Daylen does it, like the words aren't just words, something to be thrown around casually. Daylen says them like he means them, like he sat down and thought about whether they were true, and decided they were.

And when they're alone together like this, Alistair wants to prove him right more than he wants anything else in the world. He wants to deserve those words.

Getting annoyed with Daylen's fussing doesn't do that, so Alistair lets out a deep breath and relaxes: into the mattress, into the rope, into his role for tonight.

"All right," Daylen says, dropping a kiss on the back of Alistair's head before letting go of him. "I'll stop fussing, I promise."

Alistair laughs, surprised. "I didn't say it."

"No, but if you weren't thinking it, I'm amazed." Daylen trails a hand down his back, from the nape of his neck all the way to his ass and the base of the wooden...thing currently inside him.

Alistair doesn't know what to call it. Daylen calls it a toy, but that makes Alistair think of dolls and tin soldiers, not anything he wants to associate with sex. It doesn't help that he hadn't known anything like it existed until Daylen showed it to him a few days ago. Oh, he knew people made cocks out of various things, but he hadn't known there were things like this, designed not to fuck someone so much as to just be pushed inside and left there. Though Daylen did fuck him with it the other night, more slowly and gently than Daylen normally does anything.

Alistair might not know what to call it, but he knows he likes it. The memory of Daylen working it into him a little bit at a time, deliberately teasing, does wonders for his cock now. He rolls his hips to rub against the sheets, then does it again when Daylen pushes against the base of the thing, shifting it around inside him.

"I thought you'd like this," Daylen says, pushing harder on the base. His voice has deepened slightly, gained an edge Alistair can't explain or describe but that makes his heart pound every bit as much as the more literal edge of a blade, bared for a fight. Only better, because while he might get hurt here, it will be in ways he wants.

_"Tell me exactly what you want," Zevran had said to Alistair, the first time they'd talked about it, after Daylen had sketched the outline._

_When Daylen had opened his mouth to answer, Zevran had given a sharp shake of his head and help up a hand to forestall whatever help he'd been about to give. "I wish to hear it from Alistair."_

_Alistair had flailed for an embarrassing amount of time before finally blurting out, "Wrong." Neither Daylen nor Zevran had laughed at him, so he'd added, face flaming, "I want it to be wrong."_

Daylen strokes a hand down the inside of Alistair's thigh and then along the back of his calf and all the way to the rope around his ankle. Checking it again, probably, but it doesn't feel like his earlier fussing. It feels like a reminder to both of them, how helpless Alistair is like this. His cock is definitely interested again, almost as hard as it was when he lay down on the bed to let Daylen tie him like this.

"All right," Daylen says. "I'll be back after supper. Try not to get too bored."

Bored. Right. Because that's definitely what Alistair will be. "I'll work on it."

"You do that." The words are accompanied by a pinch to the inside of Alistair's thigh, hard enough it might bruise later. What makes Alistair's hips jerk, though, is the reminder Daylen is giving him: a reminder of the marks Daylen's teeth left all up and down the insides of Alistair's thighs and across his ass. Alistair couldn't get a good look at the ones on his ass, but the ones on his thighs are red and purple, occasionally darker where Daylen bit especially hard.

"You can think about all the things I'm going to do to you when I get back," Daylen says. By his voice, he's at the door now. "Though of course, it might be a while. Zevran mentioned something about a game of wicked grace."

Alistair smiles into the mattress at the knowing smirk in Daylen's voice, but he doesn't say anything. They're in the game now, and he wants to forget it's a game at all, which means pretending they don't both know exactly where Zevran will be.

Daylen locks the door on his way out, and then the room is quiet except for the sounds from the common room below. The inn is cheap, the floors and walls thin, and the common room rowdy even at its best. Alistair knows how loud it got last night, and tonight is the eve of some local festival or another. If the noise level keeps increasing at its current rate, none of the inn's guests will be sleeping well tonight, unless a drunken stupor counts.

Still, the noise is just noise, voices and words indistinguishable from each other, and it recedes from Alistair's awareness. He's too busy listening for quieter sounds, while also trying to pretend he's not listening for anything. He's waiting. Just waiting. Not expecting anything soon. Daylen will be back after supper and a game of cards, and he'll fuck Alistair like this, Alistair helpless under him, there for Daylen to use however he wants.

The thought sends a flush down Alistair's body, his skin prickling and too-warm. If he wasn't tied to the bed, he'd be pacing now, unable to wait quietly while the anticipation builds. He wants the weight of Daylen's body on top of him while Daylen tells him things that make him blush, and he wants Daylen's cock filling his throat, and if he can't have both at the same time in the real world, he can pretend otherwise now.

He thrusts idly against the mattress, not trying to get himself off but needing to move somehow. He forgets to listen for the sound of the lock turning or the door opening, lost in his fantasy and the anticipation of Daylen's return.

So when he turns his head and finds Zevran watching him from a few feet away, Alistair's whole body jerks in surprise, and his heart pounds as if it really is a complete shock to find Zevran in the room with him. How long has he been there, leaning oh-so-casually against the door and watching Alistair rut against the bed? With all the noise from the common room downstairs, he could have snuck in at any point.

Zevran smiles, and another shock goes through Alistair. That smile has an edge to it, sharp and deadly, and Alistair feels a twinge of real fear. In his own way, Zevran has as many sharp edges as Daylen, but he's better at hiding them, and for whatever reason, the fact that they're usually hidden makes it frightening to see them brought into the light. Even knowing it's an act, Alistair feels like he went to pet a friendly dog and found a bereskarn there instead.

Because he knows it's an act, but he doesn't _know_ , not really. He trusts Zevran, and so does Daylen--if they didn't, Alistair wouldn't be here--but on a visceral level, that smile kicks a primitive part of his mind fully awake, and that part of him does not want to be tied down right now. It has him pulling against the ropes before he's even aware he's going to do it, jerking hard enough to shake the bed. The ropes and Daylen's knots hold, though, and Alistair forces himself to abandon the effort.

"Who the fuck are you?" he demands instead. With Zevran smiling at him like that, his own role fits better than he ever thought it would.

It's easy to forget that the person leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest, is Zevran. He becomes a stranger, a blond elf with knives strapped to his back and hard, assessing eyes. He's wearing most of a set of light armor, as if he wanted to be prepared for a fight but didn't expect to find one: a boiled-leather cuirass without pauldrons, leather gloves that reach halfway up his forearms, and sturdy-but-unarmored boots.

"Who am I?" the stranger echoes, just loud enough to be heard over the noise from the common room. His smile grows both wider and sharper, all surface friendliness over something venomous. "You may call me Talon. Not my name, of course, but it will do, should you wish to call me anything."

"What I want is for you to get out of my room," Alistair says, as forcefully as he can from his current position.

"I will," Talon says. "In due time, of course."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alistair asks, voice rising. "What are you even doing in here?"

Talon raises his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, but he seems more amused than concerned. "I saw your friend leave and wondered what interesting things he might have left lying about." His gaze roams pointedly over Alistair from head to foot, and his eyes narrow in pleasure. "But I never expected to find something so lovely in a place such as this."

As Alistair gapes, unable to think of a response, Talon pushes off the door to saunter across the room. Not to Alistair, though: to the armor stand at the foot of the other bed, and Alistair's armor hung on it. Talon caresses the breastplate and pauldrons, his gloved fingers idly tracing the metal.

"Don't touch that," Alistair snaps, recovering at least some of his wits.

"I'm curious how you plan to stop me from touching anything in this room, if I wish to touch it." Talon touches the breastplate again, without looking at Alistair.

"You don't-! You shouldn't-!" Alistair sputters. "Leave that alone!"

"As you wish," Talon says with a casual shrug. This time, he reaches for Daylen's staff where it's propped in the corner beside Alistair's armor. He wraps his hand around it above the grip and strokes lightly up the smooth wood, his mouth quirked in a tiny, private smile.

"Don't touch that, either!" It's pointless, but Alistair jerks at the ropes again.

"Don't touch this, don't touch that." Talon strokes his hand up and down the staff, and Alistair flushes as he realizes what the gesture is supposed to remind him of. "So many things I'm not to touch."

"You shouldn't be in here," Alistair says, anger and fear twisting in his voice. He's a little surprised at both emotions: this is the part he thought he wouldn't be able to do, to forget what he knows and react the way he would if the situation were real. But something about the way Talon is looking around the room, as if everything here is displayed for his amusement, makes it difficult for Alistair to think rationally. By the detached curiosity on Talon's face, anyone would think he was looking around a shop, rather than invading someone's private room.

Talon stops stroking Daylen's staff but only so he can trace the grain of the wood with a fingertip. "Such lovely work," he says judiciously. "And well cared for, too."

"Put it down," Alistair orders. "And get out of here before Daylen gets back."

"Daylen?" His head cocks to one side for a moment, then he nods in understanding. "Ah, yes. Your friend."

"He'll be back any minute," Alistair lies.

"Will he now?" Talon asks.

Alistair hadn't known it was possible to fit that much threat into three innocuous words, delivered in a tone verging on bored.

"So many people in the common room tonight," Talon says. He still hasn't looked at Alistair, too busy frowning thoughtfully at the staff in his hands, like he's thinking about buying it. "I find myself wondering how long it will take anyone to get their supper."

"I'll yell." Alistair feels foolish even as he says it, and he isn't surprised when Talon shakes his head sadly.

"Yell as much as you wish, my friend, if you think anyone will hear you." He finally puts the staff back where it was, only to begin inspecting the collection of salves and potions Daylen left on top of the trunk. "But the only rooms on this hall are those taken by your travelling companions, and they all joined your friend in waiting for supper."

"They'll be back! Daylen will be back."

"Eventually." Talon smiles a secretive little smile. "I will admit, he has reason to rush, knowing he left you here to await his pleasure, but how could he guess that in his absence, I would be here having such a lovely time with you?"

"We're not having 'a lovely time,'" Alistair says, putting as much venom as he can into the last words. "You broke into our room."

"I did no such thing." Talon picks up a bottle and uncorks it, raising it to his nose to sniff carefully. "I happened to find the door open, and so I came in."

"The door wasn't open!" Alistair says. "It was locked!"

"Was it?" Talon says disinterestedly, fitting the cork back into the bottle. "Not locked very well, then."

He sets that bottle down to reach for another, and Alistair snaps, "Stop it!"

Talon's hand pauses, and his head turns slowly to Alistair, his body motionless. His face is eerily blank, all smiles gone. "My apologies," he says cordially. "I believe I may have misheard. Surely you would not be so rude as to order your guests about."

Shit. Right. Words Alistair isn't supposed to say unless he means them. He hadn't thought it would be an issue--he'd assumed he'd be too embarrassed to do more than mumble--but "stop" was definitely on the list.

Zevran had suggested a watchword--and then explained to Alistair what that meant--but Daylen had shaken his head to cut off Alistair's ready agreement.

_"None of us actually knows how you're going to feel about this when it's happening," Daylen had said. "If it all works this time, we can talk about watchwords next time."_

_Alistair had looked at Zevran for help, but Zevran had given him a return look that said he wasn't stupid enough to get in the middle of any argument between Daylen and Alistair._

_"Think about it this way," Daylen had said. "If you're panicking, what are you going to say? Really panicking," he'd added for emphasis. "Not upset, not scared, not angry. Panicking."_

_And Alistair had seen his point. "Stop," he'd admitted._

_"If I think you said the word without true intent," Zevran had said, "I will do what I can to stay within the game when I check." He'd waited for Alistair's nod before adding, "But with a game like this, better ruined than that I continue when you wish otherwise. If you tell me to stop and I must decide on my own whether you meant it, I will choose caution."_

_"Which means," Daylen had said dryly, "try not to say it by accident."_

And now Alistair has done exactly what they told him not to do, wrenching himself out of the game in the process. Shit shit shit _shit._

If it was Daylen playing this game with him, Alistair would know how to communicate that everything is fine, and he tries the same thing now: he presses his mouth closed and glares mutinously at Zevran. Angry. Not afraid. Not panicked. Not in over his head, because Maker, he doesn't want this to stop. His cock is achingly hard, or it was before he messed up, and it will be again if he can get things back on the right track.

Zevran regards him for a long moment, his face impassive. He's normally so expressive, it's disconcerting to see his face so blank. It makes him seem remote, a little bit removed from other people and normal emotions, and all the more dangerous for it.

The mattress is in the way and the position awkward, but Alistair does his best to tip his chin up in a challenge, narrowing his eyes further. Zevran has been peripherally involved in enough of Daylen and Alistair's games, maybe he'll recognize the signal for what it is.

Without looking away from Alistair, Zevran sets down the bottle he's holding and picks up a new one. Turning it between his fingers, he says, "I believe I asked a question. Did I hear you correctly?"

"That's not yours," Alistair says from between clenched teeth. "And you shouldn't be in here."

The sharp, dangerous smile returns, and it's Talon who asks, "How will you stop me?"

Alistair glares silently back.

"Ah," Talon says, "there lies the problem, does it not?" He holds the bottle between himself and one of the candles, turning it slowly back and forth to watch the liquid inside flow thickly against the glass. "You tell me this doesn't belong to me, and so I should leave it be."

"Yes!"

"And yet, I could make it mine. All I need do is slip it into my pocket."

"That's stealing," Alistair says. "That doesn't mean it's yours."

"There we must disagree, my friend." Talon closes his hand around the bottle and puts it in his pocket, holding Alistair's gaze the whole time. "If I can take it, then it becomes mine."

It isn't until Talon's smile widens that Alistair understands the implied threat, and he flushes, heat spreading across his face and down his chest. "You can't…I'm not…I'm not a…a thing!" He's stammering from shock as much as anger or fear. "You can't steal a person."

"Can I not?" Talon asks absently. He's looking around the room again, curious and vaguely proprietary, and he doesn't seem to care how or if Alistair answers.

He pockets another small bottle without looking at either it or Alistair, then wanders toward the other end of the room. Alistair loses sight of him, and there's too much noise from the common room to hear what he's doing, but Daylen and Alistair's packs are piled against the wall opposite the door, between the beds. The thought of Talon going through their belongings makes Alistair grit his teeth and try again to get free, despite the way the rope scrapes over already abraded skin.

"So many lovely things left lying about," Talon muses. By his voice, he's standing right beside Alistair's bed now, up by the head where Alistair can't see him or what he's doing. "And all unguarded."

The hairs on the back of Alistair's neck stand on end, and every muscle in his body quivers with tension.

"So many things I could make mine." He sounds thoughtful, a man contemplating his choices at a market stall.

Something touches Alistair's ankle, tracing a line where rope meets skin, and Alistair tries to jerk away. He knows it won't work, that even if he strains for a few inches of slack in the ropes, Talon will still be able to reach anything he wants to touch. Right now, that's the back of Alistair's knee, but who knows what it will be next.

The thought settles into Alistair's head, and he fights his body for control: fights to breathe evenly, fights not to waste any more effort on attempts to pull away, fights to keep his hands from balling into fists. Fights to hold his hips steady, to not let them rock and push his cock against the mattress.

"All these lovely things." One of Talon's fingers strokes up the back of Alistair's thigh, the leather of his glove scratching lightly. "A shame their owner was so careless with them."

His finger reaches the top of Alistair's leg and follows the curve of his ass around to his inner thigh.

"Someone," Talon says, drawing out the word, "might conclude their owner didn't care enough to protect them."

Alistair wants to argue, but he can't focus on anything except Talon's gloved fingers drawing patterns on his skin. He's not wearing the thin gloves a noble might wear to a ball; these are a fighter's gloves, thick-fingered and rough-textured, for all they're much thinner than the gloves Alistair wears beneath his gauntlets. They make Talon's fingers feel huge and unnatural.

"And yet, someone went to a great deal of effort to adorn you very prettily." Talon drags three of his fingers up the inside of Alistair's leg, all the way from his knee to where his thighs meet. "It must have taken quite some time to decorate you so thoroughly."

The bite marks, Alistair realizes. Talon is tracing the bite marks Daylen left last night. That's more an invasion of their privacy than any amount of time spent looking through their packs, and Alistair tries again to jerk away, with no more success than before. The best he can manage is to press a few inches of his thighs together.

"First these," Talon says, pressing hard enough against one bite mark to make it ache, "and then this." He runs his hand up higher, forcing Alistair's legs apart, and pushes on the base of the toy.

Alistair isn't expecting that. Caught off-guard, he can't stop his hips from flexing, and worse, he can't stop the groan before it slips out. He flushes with shame, angry at himself for reacting and at Talon for making him do it.

"I thought so." Talon's voice is insufferably smug. Alistair barely notices, because at the same time, Talon pulls on the toy just hard enough for Alistair to feel it but not hard enough to pull it out.

Even half expecting it, Alistair shudders, his breath catching in his throat.

"Your amo is a fool," Talon says. He pulls harder, drawing the toy out a tiny bit, before letting it slide all the way back in. "To leave something so pretty lying around where anyone might take it."

Alistair doesn't dare open his mouth to reply, for fear another groan might escape. A moment later, he's glad for his own caution as Talon begins to twist and tilt the toy so it rubs against new and interesting places. At least Alistair is facedown and flat against the mattress, so Talon can't see how hard his cock is, and how much it enjoys what's happening. Bad enough Talon can hear his breathing pick up and watch the muscles in his ass and thighs clench. At least Alistair can pretend that reaction is thwarted anger, or even fear. He would rather Talon thought he was afraid than aroused.

"But perhaps I shouldn't judge him so harshly." Talon's other hand, the one not on the toy, spreads the cheeks of Alistair's ass apart. "If you were mine, I too might be tempted to leave you like this. An alluring thought, that when I finished with whatever else I cared to do, you would be here for me to use."

Alistair smothers another betraying groan against the mattress, eyes squeezed shut with the effort needed to keep the rest of his body still.

"A much more interesting toy than this one," Talon adds, tapping the wooden base.

For a moment, Alistair thinks he missed something while he had his face in the mattress, and then understanding runs through him like fire. Talon is talking about _him_. Calling _him_ a toy. Daylen's toy, the same as the carved piece of wood Talon is twisting inside him.

"Prettier, too." The words are idle, a description of an object rather than a compliment to a person.

Talon stops wiggling the toy around, but Alistair's relief is short-lived as he returns to pulling on it. He pulls it out so slowly Alistair can't think about anything except how it's stretching his hole wider and wider, almost to the point of pain at the widest point, before gradually easing off as the toy begins to taper down to its blunted tip. Only when it's almost all the way out does he hear himself whimpering, small noises he cuts off too late.

"Yes," Talon says. He rubs the tip of the toy over Alistair's hole, then begins to push it back in. "I begin to understand your amo a little better."

He's no quicker pushing it in than he was pulling it out, a slow torture Alistair isn't sure he'll survive. Isn't sure he wants to survive, because if he does, he has to acknowledge why he's shaking, why his mouth and throat are dry from panting, why his cock is so painfully hard.

"In fact," Talon says, "perhaps I should be grateful for his negligence. Think how boring this evening might have been for me, if he had taken greater care with his things."

There's no special emphasis on the last word, but it's loud in Alistair's ears, and he bites down on the sheet in a desperate hope it will block any noises he makes. Just in time, because Talon isn't done with the toy: he's pulling it out again, at the same excruciating pace as before.

Alistair loses track of time for a while, too focused on not drowning in the feel of Talon pulling the toy out and pushing it back in, over and over and over again. It's like the first moments of being fucked, except there's never time for his body to adjust before the sensation changes again, pressure slowly forcing his hole wide, then gradually easing off, then forcing it open again.

When Talon finally finishes pushing the toy in for the last time, Alistair's wrists and ankles burn from pulling against the rope, and he has a strong suspicion he failed to control all of his groans.

A suspicion that's confirmed when Talon says with mocking disapproval, "Your amo must not take very good care of you, if he leaves you so desperate to be fucked that you'll beg even me."

Mortified, Alistair cringes. Though maybe Talon is lying and Alistair didn't actually beg; his ability to form intelligible words is usually the first thing to abandon him.

With a perfunctory pat on the ass and a last gentle tug at the base of the toy, Talon straightens with a sigh. Alistair tries to tell himself that what he's feeling is relief, but to his horror, a disappointed whine escapes his throat.

"Never fear, little plaything," Talon says, "I plan to make use of you one way or another." The sound of his voice moves, continuing around the bed until a pair of booted feet appear in Alistair's line of sight. "I merely need to decide how."

Alistair keeps his face turned down and his lips pressed together. He won't give himself away again. He _won't_.

A gloved hand cups his jaw, forcing his head up despite his efforts to keep it down. Even with Talon's "help," the ropes won't let Alistair move enough to see Talon's face. Instead, he winds up staring at the tops of Talon's legs, and at his cock straining the front of his trousers. The urge to lick his lips is nearly overwhelming, but Alistair rolls his lips between his teeth and bites down hard to stop himself.

One of Talon's fingers touches the corner of his mouth. "Open," he says, and his tone says he expects immediate compliance.

Alistair ignores him.

Talon makes a tsking noise. "You are so very pretty, and I would hate to mar that." He pauses, finger tracing the seam of Alistair's lips. "But you will open your mouth one way or another. I leave the choice to you, so long as you decide quickly."

Alistair closes his eyes and opens his mouth. Not far, but enough for Talon's fingers to fit between his teeth, and from there, Talon can push his mouth open as far as he wants.

He hasn't taken off his gloves, and as strange as his gloved fingers felt against Alistair's legs, they feel even stranger in his mouth. The leather drags across his tongue, too dry to slide easily, tasting of salt and metal. The seams along the glove's fingers are designed for strength rather than beauty, and the heavy thread of the stitches scrapes the corners of his mouth.

"So now I must decide," Talon says. His fingers begin to slide in and out of Alistair's mouth, straining his jaw. "I could fuck your mouth, and perhaps your amo would never know I was here. He would continue to be careless, and I might have another chance tomorrow, if you remain here another night."

Alistair tries to swallow and can't, tries to pull away and can't, tries to tell himself he doesn't want this and can't.

"I could use you again, and I know how much I want that." His mouth is right beside Alistair's ear, his breath warm. "I know how much _you_ want that, and so this could be a little secret, just between the two of us."

His fingers push deep into Alistair's mouth, forcing it to open as far as it can and making Alistair gag.

"And yet, so many ifs to consider." He pulls his fingers back just enough they're no longer touching the back of Alistair's throat, but he presses down at the same time, forcing Alistair's mouth to stay open and holding his tongue in place. " _If_ you stay another night. _If_ your amo doesn't realize I was here. _If_ he is foolish enough to leave you like this again."

The hand holding Alistair's head up squeezes his face almost painfully tight, Talon's fingers digging in to his cheeks and jaw.

"Or I could take your ass instead." He sounds like he's debating what to have for supper. "I would enjoy it, you would enjoy it-"

He cuts himself off when Alistair shakes his head in denial, as best he can with Talon's fingers in his mouth and hand gripping his face.

"Oh, pretty one," Talon chides him softly. "We are both entirely aware how much you want it, so let's not pretend otherwise." He drags his fingers over Alistair's tongue, all the way out of his mouth and then all the way back in. "Just as well for you that you want it, as I intend to use you no matter what. At least this way, you receive something in exchange."

Alistair is glad he doesn't have to look Talon in the eye right now. If he did, he might die of shame, because Talon is right, and they both know it. Alistair does want it. He's breathless with wanting it, need rising inside him like a tide.

"Now where were we?" Talon asks. "Ah yes. We were discussing your very lovely ass, and how much we both want me to make use of it. I would enjoy it, you would enjoy it, and your amo...well, he would not enjoy it, when he returns tonight and discovers someone else has been playing with his toys, but perhaps it will teach him not to leave valuable things unguarded."

His hand relaxes its hold on Alistair's face, and his thumb sweeps across Alistair's cheek. His fingers thrust slowly in and out of Alistair's mouth, deep enough to make him gag each time, and finally, Alistair can't stop himself: he sucks as best he can, stretching after Talon's fingers to keep them in his mouth as long as possible. They're wet and slick now, smearing saliva down his chin as they slide out between his lips despite his best efforts.

"Ah, that decides it, I think." Talon pushes his fingers back in. "Suck."

Alistair exhales sharply through his nose in relief and does as ordered, straining his neck to get Talon's fingers deep enough to reach the back of his throat. He's shaking with the need to grind his hips down against the mattress until he comes, but he ignores it. This is more important: his lips stretched and his mouth full, even if the taste and the texture aren't what he's used to. He sucks and licks and doesn't care about the soft, eager sounds he's making.

Talon hums approvingly. "I hadn't thought it possible for you to look any prettier, but now I see I was wrong." There's a long pause, his gaze nearly tangible for all Alistair can't see his face. "A pity we have so little time."

He sighs theatrically and takes his hand back, lowering Alistair's head to the mattress before releasing his face. At Alistair's disappointed noise, Talon pats him absently on the head.

"Blame your amo," he says. "He truly does need a lesson, before anything unfortunate happens to you."

It's not easy to concentrate on his words, and while it seems clear he's made a decision, it's less clear what that decision was. Alistair knows what he wants it to be--he wants to suck Talon's cock, and never mind the terrible angle--but his grip on reality is slipping away, pushing what he wants off to the edges of his awareness. What matters is what Talon wants, and that Alistair is the one to give it to him.

Still, he has the vague impression Talon intends to fuck his mouth, so he's confused when Talon paces slowly up the length of the bed, gloved fingertips trailing along Alistair's spine to his ass. They're the fingers Alistair was sucking moments before, and they leave a cool, damp trail behind.

"A lesson for your amo, then."

There's too much noise from the common room for Alistair to hear anything, but there's a pause and he imagines Talon unlacing his trousers. Then the mattress shifts as he climbs onto the bed to kneel between Alistair's legs. Alistair buries his face in the mattress and tries to hold still.

"I myself am inclined to be careful with other people's things," Talon say, "but if your amo leaves you like this too often, the next person to find you might be, shall we say, less responsible."

He runs his hands up the insides of Alistair's thighs, pushing them apart as far as the ropes will allow. This time, Alistair doesn't try to keep them pressed together.

Talon cups Alistair's ass with both hands, squeezing with surprising gentleness. "It would be a shame to see such a pretty toy broken."

Despite everything, Alistair can feel a blush creep up the back of his neck, and he's as mortified by how much the praise thrills him as by the praise itself.

"So let's teach your amo a lesson, shall we?"

For a man who was just lamenting how little time he has, Talon doesn't hurry. He presses his thumb against the wooden base of the toy in Alistair's ass, tilting it back and forth, back and forth, until Alistair makes a noise that's half pleasure and half protest.

"I see you've given up pretending you're not eager for my cock." Talon sounds smug. "Good. It will make this so much easier."

He gives the toy a last, rough shove, the edges of the base digging in between the cheeks of Alistair's ass, then removes it without any of his earlier teasing. While Alistair is still shuddering from that, Talon is suddenly _there_ , on top of him and around him and shoving into him, cock stretching him as Talon's weight pins him to the bed. The air is pushed from Alistair's lungs, the leather of Talon's cuirass cool and slick against the hot skin of his back.

That slick leather is as wrong and out of place as the rougher leather of Talon's gloves. It doesn't give the way muscle would, and for all leather is more flexible than metal, the cuirass doesn't fit itself against Alistair, or conform to the shape of his back the way Daylen does, or Zevran. The cuirass alternately slides and sticks, unmistakably different from skin or clothing.

The buckles on Talon's belt are more familiar: they scratch and gouge him occasionally, but there have been plenty of times Alistair and Daylen were in too much of a hurry to bother getting undressed. Over the last few months, the buckle of Daylen's belt has left almost as many marks on Alistair as Daylen's teeth. Combined with the strangeness of the cuirass, though, even that familiar sensation is made strange again, as strange as it was the first time Alistair felt it.

Talon groans appreciatively and grinds down against him, driving the air from Alistair's lungs again. "Something else for your amo to be angry about." Talon is so smug now, he's almost gloating. "You won't be this wonderfully tight for him, will you? Not tonight."

Talon's whole weight is on Alistair now, and he feels heavier than he should for his size. One hand is on Alistair's hip and the other in his hair, gripping gently for now but threatening by its mere presence.

"Does he like this part best?" Talon asks. His mouth is close enough to Alistair's ear that even when he lowers his voice to a murmur, it's audible over the noise from downstairs. "Forcing his cock into you with your ass so tight he might almost be fooled into thinking you don't want it?"

Alistair tries to bury his face deeper in the mattress, but the moan escapes anyway.

"I thought as much." Talon takes a tighter grip on his hair, pulling his head back so he can't hide his face or his groans. "Because I think your amo and I are very much alike, and if you were mine, I would look forward to this every night."

His hips move in a single long, slow thrust, his cock pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Alistair doesn't try to stop the sound he makes.

"So tonight I can take this from him, too. By the time he has his turn, you'll already be slick and open." Talon's voice is still smooth, not even a little bit breathless, but Alistair is gasping enough for both of them. "How will he feel, I wonder, knowing someone else has already had you and spent inside you?"

Alistair is drowning. That's the only word to describe it, this smothering sinking weightlessness, water closing over his head and the surface receding above him. He's experienced something similar a few times, but never quite like this. In the past, he's always been at least a little in control: he's allowed himself to sink, even pushed himself deeper. This time, something is dragging him down, and he'll have to fight it if he wants to stay afloat.

He doesn't.

"One more piece, I think, and we can call the lesson taught." Talon nuzzles the back of Alistair's neck, gentle until he bites down hard without warning.

The sensation runs through Alistair like a wave, his body moving with it and with the waves that follow as Talon sucks on the skin under his teeth. There's a wrenching sense of dislocation, of utter wrongness, and it sets Alistair's whole world askew. He feels like something has been torn away from him, and he hates it, the way he hates everything Talon has done to him, is doing to him, will do to him before this is over.

Which is to say, not at all. The wrongness grabs him by the throat and claws at his skin, proof that no part of him is safe. Talon can take whatever he wants, break whatever he wants, and there's nothing Alistair can do to stop him. Alistair is no different than Daylen's staff, something anyone can take and use if it's left unguarded.

Talon's free hand, the one not fisted in Alistair's hair, pushes between Alistair's chest and the mattress to wrap diagonally across his torso from ribs to opposite shoulder. After everything else, it feels less like an embrace and more like a declaration of ownership. It lets Talon exert a little more control over Alistair's body, and he uses it to squeeze the breath out of him. Talon's fingers dig in to Alistair's shoulder as painfully hard as his teeth dig in to Alistair's neck, probably leaving a matched set of bruises.

Bruises are the least of Alistair's concerns right now. With Talon's arm tight around his chest, he can barely get enough air, every breath a conscious struggle. It's not as quick as a hand over his mouth and nose: Talon is suffocating him by inches, giving him time to suffer through every individual moment of the growing dizziness and the grey haze closing in from his peripheral vision until all he can see are flashing lights.

Talon eases his grip, and Alistair gulps in air. His thoughts are blurred by more than the lack of air, and in that confusion, the strongest thing he feels is gratitude toward Talon for letting him breathe again.

"Thank you," he whispers between gasps. The words feel good in his mouth, the right thing to say even if his rational mind recoils from them.

Talon's laugh is warm, but it has the same dangerous edge as his smile, and Alistair shivers at hearing it from so close. That laugh is a threat all on its own.

"You wish to thank me, pretty one?"

Alistair nods, dizzy and disoriented and desperate to please.

"Then make up for the lies you told when you claimed not to want this." Talon shifts his weight so he can breathe the next words into Alistair's ear, enunciating each. "Beg me."

So Alistair does. Words pour out of his mouth, broken sentences and jumbled sounds he doesn't listen to, because Talon's voice is the one that matters. His own is irrelevant except as far as it can give Talon what he wants.

Talon bites him again, far enough from the first mark to suck a bruise into new skin, and his arm tightens around Alistair's chest. Not as tight as before, but tight enough to restrict Alistair's breathing and make him intensely aware of how easily his air could be cut off again. He fights for every shallow breath, when he isn't fighting the ropes in the desperate hope of somehow finding enough slack to fuck himself on Talon's cock.

"Lie still unless I tell you to do otherwise," Talon says, annoyed.

Alistair flinches, ashamed, then forces his body to stillness, holding every muscle taut against the temptation to move again.

"Good," Talon says, and his tone adds, _"Finally."_ He's stopped moving, his hips no longer driving his cock in those slow thrusts, and Alistair wants to hide, knowing it's his fault Talon had to stop.

"S-sorry," Alistair mumbles. Talon still has his head pulled back by the hair, which doesn't make it any easier to talk, but he tries. "I'll be good, I-"

"Prove it." Brisk, and the tiniest bit skeptical.

The fist in his hair doesn't make it easy to nod, either, and Alistair doesn't know if it's clear that's what he's doing, so he says, "I will-"

Talon pulls harder on Alistair's hair--something Alistair hadn't thought was possible--and uses that grip to shake Alistair's head around, cutting him off. "The only words I should hear from your mouth from now on are 'please,' 'give me,' and 'your cock.'" Talon hums thoughtfully to himself for a moment before adding, "'Yes' and 'more' are also acceptable. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes," Alistair whispers. Then, louder and edged with desperation, "Please give me your cock."

"Better." He sounds less annoyed, if no less skeptical. "It seemed for a moment as though you thought any of this was for you." His hips begin to move again, his strokes shallower and slower than before. "But then I thought, no, surely no one would keep a toy, even one this pretty, if it couldn't be used."

Alistair's lips form an apology that he stops before he can voice it. Those aren't words he's allowed to say.

"Earlier, you told me to stop," Talon says. "And now you act as though I'm here for your pleasure. If you do either one again, I'm finished with you."

His tone is threatening, but the part of Alistair that isn't drowning recognizes the reminder for what it is. His lips burn from where they were scraped raw by the seams on Talon's gloves, and they burn hotter when he pulls them tight to lick them. "Please," he whispers, then chokes on the rest, too overwhelmed even though he knows what he wants to say.

Talon stops moving again, a waiting stillness that gives Alistair another brief moment of disorientation. In that moment, he's aware of Zevran and Talon both waiting for his next words, Zevran to see if he says stop and Talon to see if he obeys.

"Please give me your cock," Alistair says, no louder than before. He's not sure he could raise his voice for anything short of darkspawn suddenly appearing in the room. "Please more."

Talon's response isn't verbal; it's in the way his hips roll and his arm tightens around Alistair's chest and his teeth find an unmarked spot on Alistair's neck. It's in the weight of his body and the throbbing pain of his mouth sucking and biting a bruise into Alistair's skin. It's in the slow slide of his cock, the agonizing torment of each leisurely thrust when all Alistair wants is for Talon to fuck him hard and fast.

_"You act as though I'm here for your pleasure."_

It's the other way around, really: Alistair is here for Talon's pleasure. He's ashamed to have lost track of that for a while, but he won't do it again. He'll do what Talon says, be what Talon wants, because that's his purpose right now. Not to give pleasure but to let Talon take it.

Alistair closes his eyes and focuses all his attention on doing as he was told. He bites down on his tongue to remind himself not to speak, and he forces his muscles to relax, one by one, until he's limp on the bed beneath Talon.

Well, limp except for his cock. That's so hard it hurts, an ache to match the aching bites along his neck, the pain of both radiating out until they meet and merge and fill his whole body. None of it matters. It's just background noise, no different from the noise of the common room drifting up through the floor. The noise and the pain ebb and flow, but they're separate from him, pale shadows from some other reality, not the reality Alistair is in, the one where Talon is fucking him slowly and making the occasional pleased hum.

Alistair hordes every one of those small noises, craving the proof that Talon is getting what he wants. If Alistair exists right now so that Talon can use him, then he wants to be more than useful. He wants to be prized, valued, something so precious it won't ever be traded away, and right now, that means being quiet and still.

After a while, silence and stillness become part of him, and he no longer has to fight himself for them. He just floats, rocked gently by the water that was trying to drown him earlier, and lets time stretch out into a single endless now.

Talon's pace only reinforces that feeling. He fucks Alistair with unhurried strokes, pausing every once in a while to grind his hips down harder or wrap his arm tighter around Alistair's chest, but never for very long. He fucks Alistair the way Alistair might fuck his fist if he planned to spend an entire afternoon on making himself come.

Which isn't to say Talon is gentle: his teeth leave marks all over Alistair's neck and the top of his shoulder. Every bruise he makes is accompanied by another satisfied noise, until Alistair wants him to leave marks everywhere just so he keeps making that noise. He doesn't say anything, though. If Talon wants that, then he'll do it. Alistair is nothing more than a toy, and even if he's a valuable one, he still doesn't get to say how he's used.

Talon's measured thrusts don't change, but those noises gradually increase in frequency. The bites taper off at the same time, until Talon is resting his forehead between Alistair's shoulders and whispering an endless stream of praise that's about Alistair and yet also not about him. It's all about how lucky Daylen is, how careless he was to leave Alistair like this, how much Talon appreciates that carelessness. It's about how and how often Talon would use him, if Alistair belonged to him, and about how Talon would show him off to make others jealous.

The praise becomes less eloquent over time, until it's nothing more than "such a pretty toy," and "so good," and eventually just "yes" whispered over and over into the back of Alistair's neck. Then his thrusts turn hard and fast for a dozen heartbeats, before he comes with a groan that sends a spike of lust through Alistair's chest, so sharp he almost comes, too.

Talon collapses on top of him with another groan, this one of satisfaction, and it sends a gentler wave of arousal down Alistair's body. It's followed by more as Talon grinds his hips slowly against Alistair's ass, making small, satisfied noises as he chases whatever last moments of pleasure he can find.

With Talon's limp weight on top of him, Alistair's struggle for air becomes a fight. If Talon were a lover, Alistair might ask him to move, or simply move him, but Talon isn't a lover, and though there's enough slack in the rope Alistair could at least nudge Talon with a shoulder, he doesn't speak or try to change position. He exists, and he's aware. That doesn't mean he has any will of his own.

"Enough," Talon says, the word muttered as if to himself. He lays a soft kiss at the base of Alistair's skull, running his hands up Alistair's sides and out along his arms, both gestures possessive rather than tender. "Your amo will be back soon, and I wouldn't wish to be here when he arrives."

He pushes himself up to his knees, his cock leaving a wet smear on Alistair's thigh as he pulls out. There's silence for a while, the mattress shifting under his weight as he presumably puts himself back to rights. Cloth brushes the back of Alistair's leg once or twice, but it's impossible to know what Talon is using to clean himself, and Alistair doesn't care enough to speculate.

Something touches his hole, and if Alistair wasn't still floating inside, he would push his ass back to meet it. Talon can't possibly mean to fuck him again, not so soon and not if he intends to be gone before Daylen returns, but Alistair wants him to. It borders on need, this longing to be used again and again, and if he was allowed to speak, he would beg for it.

Since he isn't, he lies passively while Talon pushes the toy into him without teasing, an almost businesslike movement. The toy slides in easily now, without the burning stretch Alistair felt the first time Daylen put it in tonight. As much as Alistair enjoyed that burn, there's a different pleasure in this, in knowing why Talon can push the toy back into him without effort.

Talon uses both hands to spread the cheeks of Alistair's ass apart, one thumb nudging idly at the toy. "Now there's a pretty sight to greet your amo on his return. Perhaps it will teach him not to leave his toys lying about where anyone could take them."

The mattress shifts again as Talon climbs off the bed, leaving Alistair's thighs and ass smeared with oil and his seed. They're already starting to dry into a sticky mess, and the wrongness of that begins to crawl under Alistair's skin. If the mess hasn't dried completely by the time Daylen wants him, it will get on Daylen, and that's not right.

"All right, pretty one," Talon says, startling Alistair again. While he was distracted, Talon circled the bed and is now standing in front of him. "Open..."

Alistair begins to open his mouth without waiting for the rest, except Talon finishes with, "...your eyes."

It takes Alistair a moment to remember how to do that, and while he's still blinking the world into focus, Talon slips two fingers into his mouth.

"Not what I intended," Talon says, "but I admire your enthusiasm. Had we the time, I would take your mouth until I came again, no matter how long that might take." He drags his fingers back out, deliberately angling them to one side so the seams on his gloves scrape hard against one corner of Alistair's mouth. "But alas, time is one thing I cannot steal."

He steps back and shakes something out, holding it low enough for Alistair to see. It's a shirt, which makes no sense until he sees the wet spots dotting the front of it, and there it is again, that twisting sensation that leaves him as breathless as Talon's full weight on top of him. Because it's Daylen's shirt--Talon must have taken it from their packs when he was inspecting the room earlier--and now Alistair knows what Talon used to clean himself off.

Talon's words come back to him. _"I am very curious how you plan to stop me from touching anything in this room, if I wish to touch it."_

And later, Alistair's outraged voice: _"You can't steal a person."_

 _"Can I not?"_ Talon had said, looking unconcerned.

It turns out he can. Alistair feels like he's been stolen, no different than the bottles Talon pocketed. Talon fucked him without Daylen's permission, and worse, Talon marked him, something only Daylen is allowed to do. Alistair has been torn away, moment by wrenching moment, and he hates that; he wants to be Daylen's more than he wants anything.

But he's only a plaything, and toys don't get to choose who owns them.

Alistair lies quietly while Talon gives Daylen's shirt another shake, folds it so the wettest spots are facing up, and places it beside Alistair on the bed.

"Should I have the good fortune to cross paths with you again," Talon says, "I'll be curious to see if your amo has learned his lesson." He grips the back of Alistair's neck, two fingers of his glove still wet from Alistair's mouth. "And if he hasn't, I look forward to learning if your mouth is as delightful as your ass."

He squeezes Alistair's neck hard before releasing it to walk away. Since he still hasn't said Alistair is allowed to move or speak, Alistair does neither. It means he can't track Talon once his boots are out of sight, the noise from the common room drowning out the sound of his footsteps, but the sound of the door opening and closing is obvious.

The world drifts back to its earlier state where nothing is real except the moment Alistair is in right now. Toys don't get bored, or anticipate what comes next, or even know what comes next. He is. That's all.

Somewhere in that series of now, the door opens again. There's a long pause before it closes, as if the person who opened it stopped in the doorway, surprised by what they found.

Another silence, then boots appear in Alistair's line of sight. Daylen's boots. Which means Daylen is here, looking at the mess Talon left behind.

Daylen pushes Alistair's head to the side and holds it there while he prods the bruises on Alistair's neck. A few of them hurt when Daylen pokes them, but Alistair doesn't flinch. He hasn't been told he can move.

That doesn't stop him from curling in on himself, deep inside, when Daylen gives a soft, derisive snort. Please let that derision not be for him. All he wants is to be Daylen's, to please Daylen.

Small threads of magic gather in Daylen's hand, and as he strokes from Alistair's jaw to the point of his shoulder, the pain of the bruises fades away. He pushes Alistair's head to the other side, the motion neither gentle nor rough, and repeats the healing on those bruises, then runs his hand up the back of Alistair's neck to get the last of them. When he's done, he goes to one knee and lifts Alistair's head so he can study Alistair's face with a contemplative expression.

Whatever he finds there, he says nothing, just puts Alistair's head back where it was, chin resting on the edge of the mattress. He picks up the shirt next, and there's more silence, then another, louder derisive snort. It's almost a laugh, and Daylen tosses the shirt carelessly back on the bed like it's an inferior weapon scavenged on the battlefield.

He walks out of Alistair's line of sight, but he isn't as light on his feet as Talon. Alistair can catch the occasional sound of his footsteps as he walks to the other bed, and then the sound of his boots hitting the floor as he takes them off. Then there's nothing but the noise coming up from below, drowning any other sounds Daylen might make.

Without any clues to let him know Daylen is approaching, the hand that touches his ass would be a surprise, if he could feel surprise right now. Instead, he notes it and waits.

Daylen squeezes his ass with one hand and spreads him open, then studies what he sees for a while. If he says anything, it's too quiet for Alistair to hear.

The bed creaks as Daylen climbs in and settles between Alistair's legs, which are still spread as wide as Talon left them. Daylen drags his fingers up the inside of Alistair's thigh, over the marks he himself left and through the lingering smears of Talon's seed. If the latter bothers him, he doesn't say anything, and his fingers don't change course, or stop until they reach the base of the toy.

He pulls it out slowly, as slowly as Talon did the first time, his other hand kneading Alistair's ass hard enough that his fingernails dig in to the skin. There might be fresh marks in the morning, and Alistair wants that. He's not supposed to want, but a part of him does anyway. It wants the marks of Daylen's nails and the marks of his teeth. It wants Daylen's mouth and his cock and the weight of his body, wants him to be everywhere and everything.

And oh, when he finally is, when the toy is gone and it's Daylen's cock filling him, Alistair wants to cry with relief. This. This is right. This is where he belongs. This is who he belongs to.

Daylen stretches out on top of him, and he must have removed his clothes while he was out of sight, because there's nothing between them. His skin feels hot against Alistair's, and for the first time, Alistair realizes he's been cold since Talon finished with him. The room was perfectly comfortable when he lay down, but he struggled so much--against the ropes, against Talon, against himself--that he's damp with sweat and so are the sheets beneath him. His skin is pebbled from the cold, something he hadn't noticed until just now.

Alistair barely has time to think about that chill before the heat of Daylen's body burns it away. Daylen's chest is heavy and hot against his back, and Daylen's breath is warm on his cheek.

"I know someone else was here." Daylen manages to fit even more derision into the words than he did into his earlier snort. "Someone stupid enough to think that all they had to do was fuck you and mark you to make you theirs."

Daylen has been supporting some of his weight on his hands, but now he lets all of it rest on Alistair so he can thread his fingers through Alistair's hair. He feels so good, Alistair doesn't care if the additional weight makes breathing difficult.

"But that's not how it works, is it?" For all it sounds like a question, it's no such thing, and Daylen doesn't wait for an answer. "You're mine, and we both know it."

His certainty sinks in to Alistair like the heat of his body. The knowledge that he belongs to Daylen, and more importantly, that Daylen knows it, starts to put his world back together.

"You're _mine_ ," Daylen says again, and he sounds ready to fight anyone who says otherwise. "They can fuck you until it hurts, they can mark your skin until you bleed, and you'll still be mine."

He pulls Alistair's head to the side and kisses the muscle between neck and shoulder. "Every single inch of you is mine, and that doesn't change just because someone else had you for a little while." His lips brush Alistair's skin as he talks, making each word a touch as well as a sound. "And I don't let go of what's mine."

Alistair's world is wrenched around yet again, but this time, it's wrenched back into alignment, everything back the way it should be. The relief is beyond tears, so intense he wouldn't be able to breathe even without Daylen on top of him. He's thrown back to the first time Daylen fucked him, to the first moments of Daylen fucking him: Daylen's cock sliding across his tongue, filling his mouth and then his throat, pushing deeper even when Alistair choked. There was a rightness in that moment, in surrendering control over everything, all the way down to whether he could breathe.

He's felt that rightness plenty of times since, but never the same pure shock as the first time. The first time, he hadn't really believed it was going to happen, not until it did and it was everything he'd wanted it to be. Every time since, he's known it will happen even if he hasn't known exactly how, and as right as it always feels, without that shock it's never as overwhelming as it was the first time. He doesn't want to be stripped bare like that every time, all his thoughts shocked into total silence, and he's happy to trade it for everything else Daylen gives him, but...

But that doesn't mean he doesn't want it, if he can get it without giving up Daylen.

It's overwhelming him now, the rightness of this, of being Daylen's, of Daylen owning him and taking away control and leaving him with nothing to do but accept whatever happens. It's the same thing Talon did to him, except it's not, in a way Alistair will never be able to explain. What he feels now, with Daylen, is nothing like the creeping wrongness of Talon trying to steal him, and the shock of switching from one to the other is like the shock of that first night. There's nothing but this, not anymore.

Daylen fucks him hard and fast, the way he so often does, his breaths growing harsher and harsher in Alistair's ear. He has his forearms braced on either side of Alistair now, taking some of his weight without giving back any control. Alistair can breathe easier, but Daylen has him caged in and tied down, surrounded and surrendering without a fight.

"Ah, fuck," Daylen mutters, "fuck, you feel so good, I want..." His voice breaks for a moment, and he digs his forehead into the nape of Alistair's neck. "I want to fuck you like this all night, fuck you until you come so I can feel you..."

It's skirting the edge of his role, and it nudges Alistair momentarily out of the game, but the praise gives him a handle to pull himself back down. He craved Talon's praise, too, the darker side of the same coin as his need for Daylen's, but he has that coin the right way around now. Every groan Daylen makes, every stutter in his breathing feeds Alistair's hunger, drives home the rightness of his place and his purpose, until Daylen comes in jerky shudders.

Alistair relaxes when Daylen does. He's content and suddenly exhausted, ready to fall asleep right here and never mind how disgusting he'll feel when he wakes up in the morning. Also sore, as he's reminded when he tries to tuck his arms in against his body and only succeeds in rubbing the rope over the raw skin of his wrists.

Daylen, misinterpreting the movement, pushes himself up and off Alistair. Still floating at one remove from the world, Alistair doesn't protest, though he feels the loss sharply. No talking, no moving. He's mostly forgotten that it was Talon who gave him that order; it's too central a part of the place he's in, and he doesn't want to leave, not yet.

He continues to float as the ropes go slack one by one, and he hasn't moved when Daylen finishes and once again kneels by his head. This time, Daylen goes down to both knees and sits back on his heels, putting him close to Alistair's eye level.

"Hey," Daylen says softly, cupping Alistair's cheek.

It's not part of the game, but maybe the game is over? Alistair isn't sure of anything anymore, except that he wants to turn into Daylen's hand and isn't allowed.

"Alistair," Daylen says more firmly. "I need you to look at me and talk to me." Some realization crosses his face. "That means you can talk and move."

Alistair immediately presses his face into Daylen's palm, forgetting the first part of what Daylen said and closing his eyes in relief.

"Look at me." Daylen's voice isn't angry, but there's force behind it, and Alistair remembers with a guilty start that this is the second time Daylen has told him to do that.

His lips won't form the apology, but at least he can open his eyes, and when he does, he's rewarded with a smile.

"There you are," Daylen says, soft again. His thumb strokes Alistair's cheek, and when he continues, he speaks slowly and clearly. "I'll let you go back to wherever it is you go, but first I need to know you're all right."

"'m fine," Alistair mumbles. "Jus' fine."

"Sure," Daylen says, more agreeable than he usually is about anything. "Since you're fine, can you tell me why you're crying?"

What?

Puzzled, Alistair touches one hand to his face, then gets distracted and blinks in equal puzzlement at the way his hand shakes.

"All right, sweet." Daylen gently pushes Alistair's hand back down to the mattress and cups his own hands around Alistair's face. "Maybe you can tell me in the morning, huh?"

"Morning," Alistair agrees. He rubs his face on Daylen's hands, first one, then the other, then back to the first. Now that Daylen has drawn his attention to it, he's aware that his face is wet and that tears are still flowing freely, but he has no idea why he would be crying when he feels so good. He doesn't give it a lot of thought: it all matters less than Daylen touching him.

And Daylen isn't touching him enough.

"Cold," Alistair says. He's shivering without Daylen's warmth all around him, shivers that run deeper than the physical.

"I'll get you a-"

"You're warm," Alistair interrupts, focusing all his will on making the words clear.

"Ahhh," Daylen says. Alistair can hear the laugh in his voice, and he smiles a little drunkenly, not understanding the joke but just happy Daylen is happy.

Daylen presses a kiss to his forehead. "If I help, can you get up and walk to the other bed? Because that one's a mess, and I won't sleep in it if I don't have to."

For himself, Alistair would sleep here and not think twice about it, but for Daylen, he'll try to remember how his body is supposed to work. "Yeah."

It's not quite that simple, and Daylen insists on cleaning both of them up as best he can, but eventually Alistair is settled in the other bed. The only problem is that Daylen is pulling on his trousers, not getting into bed with him.

Alistair frowns at him in confusion, not mollified by the kiss Daylen drops on his cheek.

"I'll be right back," Daylen says. "I promise." He hesitates, and that's so unlike him that it does more to pull Alistair back to the real world than any amount of stumbling around the room.

"What's wrong?" Alistair asks, the words only the tiniest bit slurred.

"Nothing's wrong." Daylen gives him a measuring look and goes on slowly, "I just need to let Zevran know you're all right."

There's an infinitesimal hesitation before Zevran's name, one Alistair doesn't understand. He makes the best guess he can and asks, "Are you mad at him?"

"What? No, of course not." Daylen looks so honestly startled by the idea that Alistair relaxes. "But you haven't said much, so I don't know how you feel about him right now."

It takes a while for Alistair to pick apart why, then he shakes his head. "That wasn't Zevran," he says. "That was..." He hesitates, his pulse picking up even as he feels himself sinking down, away from reality. There's no logical reason for it, but he doesn't want to say Talon's name, not here, not now. "That was someone else."

"All right," Daylen says. He studies Alistair's face again and seems reassured by what he sees. "I'll be right back, but don't worry about staying awake."

Alistair nods to appease him, even though he knows he'll fight sleep until Daylen is in bed with him.

Daylen's mouth quirks, and Alistair suspects that maybe he's no better at lying when he keeps his mouth shut than he is when he talks.

But Daylen drops another kiss to his cheek without saying anything and pads to the door, barefoot and shirtless. Alistair watches him until he disappears through the door, as amazed and delighted by the sight of him as he was the first few weeks they were together. When he's fully conscious, half of the feeling is an elated, _"That's mine,"_ but right now, all he can feel is the other half, the half that revels in belonging to Daylen. In belonging to Daylen because Daylen wants him, not because Daylen is stuck with him.

Time is still moving strangely, and it feels like an eternity before Daylen returns, even though the one remaining candle hasn't had time to burn down noticeably. Daylen is carrying something, and as he wards the door with his free hand, he holds the other against his stomach as though otherwise, he might drop whatever he's got. Alistair is just aware enough to be curious, and he looks a question at Daylen.

For his part, Daylen looks mildly puzzled as he turns both hands out to Alistair, holding his cupped palms low enough Alistair can see. There's a small glass bottle in each, the wax seals unbroken.

"Zevran said to make sure you saw these, if you were still awake." Daylen tilts his hands and studies the bottles. "But he didn't say why."

Alistair smiles, the last disquieted part of him finally settling. He doesn't think he could explain it all to Daylen tonight, though. That separate place in Alistair's head is drawing him back in, stealing away all thought and emotion that doesn't belong. With his thoughts unmoored, it would be too easy to relive it all in the telling, and living it with Daylen would make it real in a way Alistair doesn't want it to be.

"Tomorrow?" he offers. Tomorrow, when _everything_ is real and not just what happens in this room, the retelling won't be the same. It might even be fun.

"Tomorrow," Daylen agrees. He sets the bottles with the others where they're scattered on the chest at the foot of his bed, then climbs into bed, pushing at Alistair until Alistair moves over to give him the outside spot.

Normally Alistair sleeps on the side of the bed closest to the door, but he doesn't argue tonight. Curled into the curve of Daylen's body, the blankets drawn up around them, it somehow feels right that Daylen is between him and any potential danger. Alistair might be a toy, a thing, but he's a precious one, something Daylen wants to protect.

And for tonight, that's all Alistair wants.

**Author's Note:**

> ...pretty sure I used up a year's ration of exclamation points in this story...


End file.
